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Jaafar lay sprawled across the king-sized mattress, his lean body a masterpiece of tension.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, ragged breaths.
"N-nnh— please," he'd been whimpering for the last ten minutes, his voice cracking on the vowels. His hands were fisted in the cotton sheets.
His dick was perfect, it was just thick enough that your fingers couldn't quite meet around it, the shaft a shade darker than his complexion with a rosy-brown flush at the tip, uncut, the foreskin currently peeled back and swollen it looked almost painful, bobbed against his lower belly, leaving a glistening smear of precum across the defined ridges of his abdomen.
You were going to kill him. You're actually going to kill him and he's going to die with his dick hard.
"That's four," you said, your voice a low, syrupy thing. You'd been kneeling between his legs, naked except for the smirk on your lips and the sheer black lace panties clinging to your pussy like a second skin.
You'd taken him to the edge four times now. His dick pulse against your tongue, your palm, the slick of your throat, and then you would pull away. Left him gasping and twitching and aching. "I think that's enough for now."
Jaafar's eyes flew open. "No— no, baby, please, I'm right there, I'm so close, just— just let me—"
"You know what you have to do," you said, swinging your legs off the bed, letting him watch the sway of your hips, the curve of your bare ass beneath the lace.
You'd been at this for weeks now, this delicate negotiation. You wanted him to take control. To stop treating you like spun glass and just fucking take what was his.
But Jaafar was soft. Not in bed though, the man could fuck, could make your eyes roll back and your toes curl, but he held back.
Always held back. Afraid to leave marks. Afraid to go too hard, too deep, too rough. He loved you too much to hurt you, he said, and it was sweet, it was tender, it was absolutely maddening.
Tonight, you'd decided, would be different.
Build him up, deny him, build him up again until the pressure inside that beautiful, gentle skull of his finally cracked.
Until the animal you knew was lurking in there—you'd glimpsed it once or twice, a flash of something dark and hungry in those warm eyes—finally broke its leash.
"I can't," he croaked, his cock twitched against his belly like it was trying to argue on its own behalf. "Baby, I can't hurt you, I won't—"
"You won't hurt me." You leaned down, pressed a kiss to his sweat-salted forehead. "I'm not made of sugar, Jaafar. I'm gonna go shower. When I come out, I want you to have thought about it."
He didn't follow you. Didn't grab you and throw you back on the bed like you desperately wanted him to. Dammit, Jaafar.
You left him there, his reflection caught in the dresser mirror across the room.
You took your time in the shower. Let the hot water sluice over your shoulders, your breasts, the ache between your legs that had been building for an hour of edging him.
Your pussy was swollen and slick, your clit a hard little pearl that pulsed with every heartbeat. You didn't touch yourself. That was part of the game.
You wanted to be just as desperate as him, just as wound-up, so that when he finally snapped you'd feel every single second of it.
Twenty minutes later you stepped out, skin hot from the heat, wrapped in a towel that barely covered your thighs.
The apartment was quiet. You padded down the hallway, water droplets still beading on your shoulders. The bedroom was empty. The sheets were a tangled mess, and Jaafar was gone.
You frowned. Checked the kitchen. The living room. Nothing. The front door was still deadbolted from the inside. He hadn't left. So where did he go?
You decided to continue with your after shower routine. If he wanted to pout, let him pout. You hung your towel on the hook behind the bathroom door, pulled on an oversized t-shirt that was his, and settled onto the plush velvet ottoman in front of your vanity.
The mirror reflected your face, skin still dewy from the shower, lips slightly swollen from the hour you'd spent wrapping them around his cock, eyes bright with unspent need.
That's when you heard the floorboard creaked outside the bedroom door.
And then the door slammed open so hard it bounced against the wall, rattling the perfume bottles on your vanity, and Jaafar was there, filling the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the hallway light, and you barely had time to register the look on his face before he was on you.
"AAH—" The shriek tore out of you as his hand fisted in your hair, and he yanked your head back. Not hard enough to hurt.
Just hard enough to make your breath catch, to make your pussy clench so violently your knees buckled.
"You think that shit was funny?" His voice was low. Nothing like the soft, pleading whimpers from a while ago.
He pressed his body against your back, you could feel him. "You think you can just edge me and then walk away?"
"I—" you started, but the words died in your throat when his free hand slid around your hip, dipped beneath the hem of the t-shirt, and found you bare underneath.
Of course you'd skipped panties after the shower. His fingers slid through your folds with an ease that made you gasp, it was almost embarrassing.
"Fuck." The word punched out of him, ragged. His middle finger circled your clit and your hips bucked.
"You're fucking soaked. Is this what you wanted? This what you've been trying to get out of me?"
"Yes," you gasped, and the comb clattered to the floor as both your hands shot out to brace against the vanity.
The mirror showed you everything, Jaafar behind you, The gold chain swinging against his collar.
The way his biceps flexed as he yanked your hips back, bending you over the ottoman, and rucked the t-shirt up around your waist.
"Say it." He kicked your feet apart with his own—bare feet. The thick, blunt head of his dick nudged against your entrance, and you whimpered. "Say you want this. Say you want me to stop being soft on you."
"I want you to stop being soft on me." The words came out in a rush, breathless and desperate. "I want you to fucking wreck me, J. Please. Please, baby, I can take it—"
The sound he made was half-groan, half-snarl, and then he was inside you.
One brutal thrust that put him to the hilt and punched the air right out of your lungs. "Oh—fuuuck—"
Your vision whited out for a second. The stretch of him was unbelievable,you'd been so wet, so ready, but he was so thick, and the angle had him hitting that spot, that perfect devastating spot, right from the first stroke.
Your fingers scrabbled against the velvet of the ottoman, Your cheek pressed against the cool wood of the vanity.
In the mirror, you watched yourself fall apart, mouth open on a silent scream, eyes glassy, hair a tangled mess around your face.
Behind you, Jaafar's reflection was something out of a fever dream. His brow was furrowed, his teeth bared, sweat already beading at his temples again, and he was watching himself disappear into you, watching the way your ass jiggled with every thrust.
"This what you needed?" He pulled out almost all the way, just the tip of him still inside, and then slammed back home. Harder than he'd ever fucked you before.
The sound of it, the wet obscene slap of skin on skin filled the room. "You needed me to bend you over and fuck you like this? Like a— fuck— like a little slut who can't stop teasing her man?"
"Yes— fuck, yes, J, just like that—"
Every thrust drove you forward, your hipbones pressing into the edge of the ottoman, and you knew you'd have bruises there tomorrow, pretty purple marks that you'd press on just to remember this.
His hands were everywhere, fisted in your hair one moment, gripping your hips the next, then sliding up under the t-shirt to palm your breasts, his fingers rolling your nipples with a roughness that made you keen.
"Unh— unh— unh—" Little grunts punched out of him with every thrust, and they were the filthiest sounds you'd ever heard.
He was vocal now, no longer holding back, no longer censoring himself for your sake. "Take it. Take this dick. Gonna make you cum so many times you forget your own name."
And he did. His hand snaked around your hip, found your clit with unerring accuracy, and started working it in tight, merciless circles.
Your first orgasm hit you like a freight train, your cunt clamping down on him so hard he had to stop mid-thrust, groaning through gritted teeth while you spasmed around his cock.
You gushed slick fluid coating his thighs and dripping down your own, leaving dark spots on the carpet below.
"Fuck, that's it, soak me—" He didn't stop, he fucked you right through it, through the overstimulation, through the screaming.
Before the first orgasm had even fully faded, you felt the second one building. "N-no— wait— Jaafar, it's too much—"
"Too much?" He laughed and slowed his hips just enough to make you sob with frustration. Two could play at this game.
"You edged me baby. You don't get to tell me what's too much." He thrust in deep and held there, grinding against your cervix, and your eyes rolled back.
"You're gonna cum again. And again. And then maybe I'll let you tap out."
The second orgasm crashed over you, stronger than the first, and you screamed yourself hoarse. Then the third. By the fourth, you were crying—tears of pleasure and overstimulation streaming down your cheeks.
He'd pulled out somewhere around the third orgasm to put you onto the bed and put your legs hooked over his shoulders and his cock driving into you at an angle that made stars explode behind your eyes.
The t-shirt was still bunched around your collarbones, your breasts bouncing with every thrust, your nipples so hard they ached.
But then he stopped. Your clit was throbbing and your cunt was fluttering and you were right there, he pulled out.
His cock, slick with your juices and his own precum, slapped wetly against your thigh. You let out a sound that was barely human.
"What— why—"
"Apologize."
The word dropped into the space between you like a stone into still water. Jaafar was still standing between your spread thighs, his chest heaving, his cock so hard and wet it looked almost angry, a thick vein pulsing along the underside.
His hand was wrapped around the base of his own dick, squeezing, staving off his own orgasm.
"Wha—"
"Apologize," he said again, and his free hand came down to trace a feather-light circle around your clit.
You bucked your hips, trying to chase the pressure, and he pulled his hand away. "For teasing me. For making me wait. For thinking I didn't know exactly what you needed. Say you're sorry."
"I'm— I'm sorry—" The words came out in a pathetic rush.
"For?"
"For teasing you. For making you wait. For— for thinking you didn't know— please, J, please—"
He smiled. Slow and dangerous and absolutely breathtaking. "You better be sorry."
And then he was inside you again, one hand braced on the ottoman beside your head, the other still working your clit, and he fucked you through orgasms five and six in quick succession until you were nothing but a trembling, sobbing, boneless mess beneath him.
His own control was fraying, his thrusts were getting erratic, his rhythm faltering, his grunts turning into desperate, high-pitched whines.
"Gonna cum," he gasped, and his forehead dropped to yours, his curls tickling your cheeks. "Baby, I'm gonna cum,"
"Cum in me. Inside. Please fill me up, Jaafar, need it—"
"Aaahh— fuuuck—" His back arched, his hips slammed home one final time, and you felt the hot, pulsing gush of his release flooding your insides, rope after rope, his cock twitching and jerking inside you.
His whole body shuddered, his hands fisting in the t-shirt, his moan a broken, beautiful thing that vibrated against your lips. "Oh god— oh god—"
You held him through it, your fingers threading into his sweat-damp curls, your lips pressing soft kisses to his forehead, his closed eyelids, the bridge of his nose.
His heart was pounding so hard you could feel it against your chest. When he finally stilled, he collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the bed, and neither of you moved for a long moment.
The room smelled of sex now. The thick, musky scent of sweat and cum and sated bodies. The candle had guttered out in its own wax.
Outside, a siren wailed somewhere in the distance, and the city lights kept their silent vigil through the windows.
"I'm sorry," Jaafar murmured into your neck, and his voice was back to soft now. "Was that too much? Did I hurt you?"
You laughed and tightened your fingers in his hair. "Baby. That was perfect. That was exactly what I wanted."
He lifted his head to look at you, that little furrow between his eyebrows that meant he was overthinking.
He knew he could do this now. Knew you wanted it.
"C'mon," you said, pressing a kiss to his pretty mouth. "Help me up. We need a shower."
The warm shower was much needed for the both of you. His hands soaped your body with reverence, massaging the ache from your hips, your thighs.
He washed your hair with the shampoo, his fingers working through the tangles with none of the roughness from before. You returned the favor, lathering up his chest, his back, the curve of his backside.
Afterwards, wrapped in towels, you slipped into your pajamas that was actually his pajamas, a pair of silk Calvin Klein bottoms that hung low on your hips and he pulled on a fresh pair of boxer briefs.
The sheets were a lost cause, so you tugged the duvet off the bed and carried it to the living room.
The windows had fogged from the heat inside, and the city lights beyond looked like something out of a dream.
Jaafar pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you, his chin resting on top of your head.
"Next time," he said, and there was a smile in his voice, "just tell me what you want. You don't have to mess with me to get it."
You snorted. "Where's the fun in that?"
His laugh rumbled through his chest, vibrating against your cheek. His heartbeat was steady now.
You’d do it again tomorrow, you thought, and smiled into the dark.